FNG's
by Bradykins98
Summary: A group of SAS trainee's are undergoing jungle training in Borneo, when they are betrayed by the one they trusted most to an emerging drugs cartel. Now stranded, split up and heavily outgunned, these FNG's must regroup, resupply and put their training to good use. T for violence and language.


FNG's

Chapter 1: Survival of The Fittest

"What happened in Borneo?" The man sitting in front of me asked. His work uniform was smart, creased; shoes polished to near perfection. CIA probably, judging by his accent. Of course the bloody Americans would want in on this. This guy's probably a pencil pusher. Someone I don't give a damn about. I stay silent. I'm not telling them anything. They wouldn't understand, they weren't there. They didn't see their friends killed, their leaders betray them; leave them to the jungle for some money. To them, it'd be a recruit against a legend, a hero, someone who has saved the world a dozen times over.

To them, it'd be me against Captain John Price.

Four months earlier (Change to third-person)

The Brecon Beacons were freezing in early January. That made it harder for the men running across them. Wheezing, panting, their legs on fire, the men knew they could not stop. To stop then would mean failure, defeat, the shame of being RTUd (returned to unit). None of the men would give up. It's a good quality, thought a man following them in a khaki Land Rover, but many will still fail. He remembered being one of those men, many years ago, a young, fresh faced raw recruit, desperate for the chance to join the famous 22nd Regiment Special Air Service, or 22 SAS is it is more commonly known. He took a puff of his Villa Clara's cigar as he watched them.

"Come on mate, we're almost there. There's just another kilo to go, then we're through." James Derringer told himself, gritting his teeth as he forced his aching legs to move. He'd gotten cramp a half hour ago, and his thigh muscles felt like they were on fire as he ran across. The C8A1 carbine in his hands could feel like a hundred pounds for all he cared. The last four weeks had been hell on earth, minus the heat. He, along with the other potential operators, had ran more kilometres, done more press-ups and more excruciating exercises than he'd ever thought possible. But it'd all be worth it, to get that tan beret, to join the ranks of the SAS. It's what kept the recruits going.

The recruit next to James, Simon Macclesfield was panting, looking absolutely exhausted. "Come on Si, just half a kilo to go, then we're done. Just half a kilo, yeah?" He tried to encourage his friend and fellow recruit to go on. Simon could only nod an answer, his lungs already desperate for oxygen. James knew the map co-ordinates he'd made were right. The other five recruits in the little group James was in had followed his example, and all their readings were the same as his. Which meant that it was either they were all right or all wrong. James hoped it was the latter.

The recruits ran for another five minutes, before being met by instructors with bottles of water. They'd made it. Laughing, Simon collapsed to the floor, gasping and sipping at his fresh water bottle eagerly. Next to him, David Picksly sat down too, grinning with the fact that he'd passed. The Khaki Land Rover that had been following them for the last two kilometres came to a halt, and its driver stepped out. He walked over to James, a stern look on his face.

"Sergeant Derringer, give me your co-ordinates." It was an order, not a request.

"50° 53′ 59.81″ north, 2° 24′ 12.72″ west, sir." He rattled off the co-ordinates that he'd memorised, knowing an instructor would ask him this question. The driver nodded, resulting in a cheer from the others. They'd passed.

"Don't get your hopes up yet. You've still got the jungle, SERE and the Tactical Questioning after this." The driver said sharply, before turning around and stalking off to another recruit that had just reached the final checkpoint. One of the recruits that was in James's group, Kevin Sumners, piped up.

"Do you think all those stories about him are true, like, with the nukes in Russia?" He asked the others, who were all refilling their own water bottles or resting.

"I think so. Apart from the one when he hung Makarov in Dubai. It sounds like something out of a video game." Simon replied, taking a sip out of his freshly filled water bottle.

"I dunno, he did kill Makarov though." Another recruit, David Mills, joined in the conversation.

"Oh yeah, he killed the fucker alright; they found him having a fag, calm as anything next to his corpse. It just seems like someone exaggerated the story a little, that's all." Simon agreed.

"Whatever he did, Captain Price is still a badass mother-fucker." James said, which everyone agreed with. Next step in their selection was the jungle. Little did they know just how dangerous it would turn out to be.

_Present Day (back to First Person)_

"You still haven't told us what happened." The man listened to my story without questions, simply nodding his head and taking notes. At least he isn't a bloody journalist; constantly interrupting and asking questions.

"You need the full story. You need to know what we thought of the guy, before it all happened." I reply, keeping my voice level. I don't want to give anything away. I just think that this is my tactical questioning, that I can't give anything away. I break, then so do the others, and once that happens, we're screwed. We'd be locked up, court-marshalled, dishonourable discharge, the works.

The man stands up abruptly, folding his notepad over and putting his pen in his breast pocket. I hear the door open behind me, and he walks out. In his place comes another man, this time in US Special Forces combat gear, albeit with the helmet missing. He's clean-shaven, unlike most US Spec Ops troops. He has crystal clear blue eyes, and dirty blond hair. He could have chosen to be a poster boy, someone who looks good on a TV ad, but instead he chose a medal, a body bag, or both.

"Hi mate, how are you doing?" He sits down, and holds out his hand for me to shake it. "My names Derek, but you can call me Frost."

**A/N: Well hello again! I've been expecting you... But joking aside, thank you for reading the first chapter of hopefully many in this story. It will get more exciting in the next chapters, as what Price has done will become more apparent. I apologise to those who love Price in advance, he is the main villain in this story, however he will be more than just your regular COD bad guy or rehash of Shepherd. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter, and as always, review! Please?**


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